‘Annie’, a girl and her dog

I am today including a beautiful little poem by Alexandra Middlemas  (10 Yrs).  Although I hesitated about putting her age initially, the poem is so good  that is exactly the reason I did:  The poem is delightful, complete and so well written this reader immediately saw the scene as described  A brief scene but full of happiness, love and yes, sunlight, of a child and her dog.

I scanned the page it came on because it showed that little extra care and attention to presentation as well as word selection, but I could not get the image clean for the page.(sorry)    The image is left and the poem below.

Annie

 

Sniffs, licks her lips

Eyes glazing with happiness

Darting in and out of the long grass

Rolling in the daises

Flops down

Tongue lolling

Panting heavily

Blinks, sneezes,

Butterflies flying around her

Birds tweeting

Sighs, closes

Her eyes

“Annie” I call

Her name sounding light

And feathery in the fresh air

She lifts herself up

To come and lick me

With her rough tongue

Her beautiful eyelashes

Blinking heavily in the sunlight

Her gentle and pretty face

Outlined in the bright sun

Her tail thumping on the dewy grass

 

by Alexandra Middlemas

 

tagged in :  animals

 

 

 

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Malika Booker, Pepper Seed. A Graph Review

Pepper Seed

Malika Booker                                                       A Graph Review.   66 to highpoints 68graph 66 to 68

£8.99    paperback

my copy here has a different cover and no title page but first printing seems to have been 2013.

published by Peepal Tree Press

978 184523211 5

A collection of 43 poems, divided between five titled sections.       The last ‘Epilogue’ contains but one poem on the last page:   My Mother’s Blues, a short elegy, if I can say that, which in an odd way settles this reader into a quiet contemplation of the whole after the rough-riding throughout the collection.

My overall impression, the aftertaste if you will, of reading this first collection is of seriously hard lives for the women of Guyana and Grenada.  The harsh behaviour, treatment and conditioning towards them and their girls.  And of the brutish behaviour of their menfolk.  The searching for love from a grandmother, a mother runs through, echoing  round the other contents of death and loss in varying ages.  The book flinches at nothing.  What it does offer is that behaviour is repetitious through generations; also that love can, as we know, take many forms for many reasons.  It would also seem religion has a foot in both camps.  Harsh love is often here and it’s recognition and explanation gives us a degree of understanding but a large dose of……’If only……’

This was her first collection and it catches references from the style of Lorna Goodison and Jean ‘Binta’ Breeze though of a tougher breed of a new-generation born in the UK.       Malika Booker has focused her powers less on the Caribbean scene but more on the human; family realities and the failures and strength of and required by women.  Her Caribbean voices, accent and rhythms occurs naturally and smoothly.   Her poems are real, people are real and the emotions follow through to the reader where finally we may find justification for actions and plenty of room for thought.   Not an easy read.

I did sort of hope for some softer, mellower poems after a while as a form of balance, or rather contrast, to the themes.  Looking further there is a softness sneaking through the outer shell, almost between the lines, of an understanding despite……….

All in all I find Malika Booker a poet who is direct; unafraid and straightforward in creating powerful poetry, bringing to the fore memories and stories of the people of Guyana and Grenada; of the history that follows them into a second and third generation spanning both the UK and the Caribbean.  With strong language aplenty but not out of place in her harsh environment.   In total, for me, a little too much ‘full on’……. if that’s a term still usable……..but a serious talent.

The stand-outs for me from this, her first, collection are:    Notting Hill,      Island grief after hurricane Ivan,   Saltfish,    Vigil,      and    My Mother’s Blues.  

Reading the book in sequence is, unsurprisingly, the best way to understand.

Next time I see her presenting some of her work I will be be in the queue to watch her performance, expecting more sharp sparks, maybe a few glows too that show a softer side to her work.

 

John Clare, Birds, Bees and Beasts, notes for a wildlife talk.

Birds, Bees and Beasts                                                

John Clare, born July  1793, died May 1864

There is much to be said about John Clare as a poet but he is probably best known as a highly observational poet and writer of Nature from his world of part-fenland, moorland,  wood and even recently enclosed farm-lands surrounding his home village of Helpston a few miles north-ish of Peterborough.  Even today ornithologists  recommend  new enthusiasts to read his writings for accurate descriptions of birds and their activities.

Perhaps the most known poem from anthologies:

Little Trotty Wagtail

Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain,
And tittering, tottering sideways he neer got straight again,
He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,
And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little trotty wagtail, he waddled in the mud,
And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.
He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail,
And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about,
And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out;
Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye,
So, little Master Wagtail, I’ll bid you a good-bye.

I should say here that Clare was not enthusiastic about punctuation and his spelling was variable plus his use of dialect words to add to the mix.   So that’s my excuse!   I just read the best I can!

In 2016    (Dr). Jeff Ollerton spoke at a ‘Clare and Nature’ event (see his ‘biodiversity blog’.)   and pointed out the value of Clare’s natural history writing and poetry for its highly detailed observations.   In the next poem, written sometime in 1825, Clare describes five bees that were common.   Today, after nearly 200 years, naturalists have established from his descriptions that within Northamptonshire at least, four are still common and one, the red-shanked Carder bee is rare. I am not a naturalist, I recognise two sorts of bees from my garden, both common, it seems:    

The poem:

Wild Bees.

These children of the sun which summer brings

As pastoral minstrels in her Merry train

Pipe rustic ballads upon busy wings

And glad the cotters’ quiet toils again.

The white-nosed bee that bores its little hole

In mortared walls and pipes it’s symphonies,

And never absent cousin, black as coal,

That Indian-like bepaints its little thighs,

With white and red bedight for holiday,

Right earlily a-morn do pipe and play

And with their legs stroke slumber from their eyes.

And aye so fond they of their singing seem

That in their holes abed at close of day

They still keep piping in their honey Dreams,

And larger ones that thrum on ruder pipe

Round the sweet smelling closen and rich woods

Where tawny white and red flush clover buds

Shine bonnily and bean fields blossom ripe,

Shed dainty perfumes and give honey food

To these sweet poets of the summer fields;

Me much delighting as I stroll along

The narrow path that hay laid meadow yields,

Catching the windings of their wandering song,

The black and yellow bumble first on wing

To buzz among the sallow’s early flowers,

Hiding it’s nest in holes from fickle spring

Who stints his rambles with her frequent showers;

And one that may for wiser piper pass,

In livery dress half sables and half red,

Who laps a moss ball in the meadow grass

And hoards her stores when April showers have fled;

And russet commoner who knows the face

Of every blossom that the meadow brings,

Starting the traveller to a quicker pace

By threatening round his head in many rings:

These sweeten summer in their happy glee

By giving for her honey melody.

 

There aren’t so many poems about bees, maybe a few more about Hares.   This is Clare’s

Hares at Play

The birds are gone to bed the cows are still

And sheep lie panting on each old mole hill

And underneath the willows grey green bough

Like toil a resting  –  lies the fallow plough

The timid hares throw daylights fears away

On the lanes road to dust and dance and play

Then dabble in the grain by nought deterred

To lick the dewfall from the barleys beard

Then out they sturt again and round the hill

Like happy thoughts dance squat and loiter still

Till milking maidens in the early morn

Giggle their yokes and start them in the corn

Through well known beaten paths each nimbling hare

Sturts quick as fear  –  and seeks its heavy lair.

………………………………

Next we could look at his badgers or foxes:  Lets go for the fox, its less well-known

The Fox

The shepherd on his journey heard when nigh
His dog among the bushes barking high;
The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout,
He found a weary fox and beat him out.
The ploughman laughed and would have ploughed him in
But the old shepherd took him for the skin.
He lay upon the furrow stretched for dead,
The old dog lay and licked the wounds that bled,
The ploughman beat him till his ribs would crack,
And then the shepherd slung him at his back;
And when he rested, to his dog’s surprise,
The old fox started from his dead disguise;
And while the dog lay panting in the sedge
He up and snapt and bolted through the hedge.

He scampered to the bushes far away;
The shepherd called the ploughman to the fray;
The ploughman wished he had a gun to shoot.
The old dog barked and followed the pursuit.
The shepherd threw his hook and tottered past;
The ploughman ran but none could go so fast;
The woodman threw his faggot from the way
And ceased to chop and wondered at the fray.
But when he saw the dog and heard the cry
He threw his hatchet–but the fox was bye.
The shepherd broke his hook and lost the skin;
He found a badger hole and bolted in.
They tried to dig, but, safe from danger’s way,
He lived to chase the hounds another day.

 ………….

But now the elusive Pine-marten:   Originally untitled, the editors title is

Marten

The martin cat long shaged of courage good

Of weazle shape a dweller in the wood

With badger hair long shagged and darting eyes

And lower then the common cat in size

Small head and running on the stoop

Snuffing the ground and hind parts shouldered up

He keeps one track and hides in lonely shade

Where print of human foot is scarcely made

Save when the woods are cut the beaten track

The woodmans dog will snuff cock tailed and black

Red legged and spotted over either eye

Snuffs barks and scrats the lice and passes bye

The great brown horned owl looks down below

And sees the shaggy martin come and go

The martin hurrys through the woodland gaps

And poachers shoot and make his skin for caps

When any woodman come and pass the place

He looks at dogs and scarcely mends his pace

And gipseys often and birdnesting boys

Look in the hole and hear a hissing noise

They climb the tree such noise they never heard

And think the great owl is a foreign bird

When the grey owl her young ones cloathed in down

Seizes the boldest boy and drives him down

They try agen and pelt to start the fray

The grey owl comes and drives them all away

And leaves the Martin twisting round his den

Left free from boys and dogs and noise and men

(Punctuation and spelling as from JC mss,  text from  ‘Clare, NOES’, published Oxford.  Ed’s: Robinson & Summerfield  )      If available still, a good collection to have.

It does look like wildlife was considered entertainment or a threat in Clare’s day too.

I reckon the owl mentioned is the one known as Eurasian eagle owl from Clare’s note of colour and nesting. Not the white, Arctic Owl.   Pine-Martins are extremely secretive animals and very scarce in most of England.  From this poem we again see Clare’s quality of observation including boys and hunters’ proclivities of the day.    Clare was not averse to egg-collecting in his youth, I doubt he was actively a poacher or into badger hunting and the like but was an observer of detail around him, including the activities of people.   His poem of a ‘Badger’ being cornered by dogs and men can be read as straightforward, vivid, descriptive fact but also as anti-hunting. Though he may not have been able to declare it openly. The poems of Fox and the Vixen have similar sympathies with the animals.

In  Clare’s poem the pine marten the owl is realistically described.   I looked for poems that described the owl rather than just promoting it as a mystical, magical or wise old bird.    Apparently, it is none of those things…..    There are very few that limit themselves to description only, maybe because they are nocturnal. Or I haven’t looked hard enough.

 Here is one observation from life by Jean Whitfield from the edge of Dartmoor:

 

Owl                             

 Composed by the roadside

he weighed a level branch down

knowing he was beautiful

the clear white sweep of him

 

tufted ears and round orange head

he blinked his eyes

rested iron claws easy

let us see enough of him

 

and finding undercurrents

lifted slowly, wafted wide wings

poised in the even air

figure skated on the breeze

 

allowed himself to fall

a small space gracefully

and rolled the lazy evening

forward and backward

over the hump in the road

 

he hung on those sunken eyes

swung over the field-hedge

Poured down from that low sky

– was gone.

 

Charles  Baudelaire offers a more, but not quite, typical poet’s view of the owl

The Owls                   

Under the overhanging yews,

The dark owls sit in solemn state,                                                                                                Like stranger gods; by twos and twos                                                                                        Their red eyes gleam.
They meditate.

Motionless thus they sit and dream                                                                                            Until that melancholy hour                                                                                                      When, with the sun’s last fading gleam,                                                                                        The nightly shades assume their power.

From their still attitude the wise                                                                                                    Will learn with terror to despise                                                                                                    All tumult, movement, and unrest;

For he who follows every shade,                                                                                              Carries the memory in his breast,                                                                                                    Of each unhappy journey made.

 

Ted Hughes’  writes  The Owl: .  A short poem with the briefest of image, much like sightings can be.     

The Owl

The path was purple in the dusk

I saw an owl perched,

on a branch

And when the owl stirred, a fine dust

fell from its wings.

I was

silent then.

And felt

the owl quaver.

And at dawn, waking,

the path was green in the

May light.

                  

And for any that drive up and down the A1: from j Johnson Smith:

The Owl of Beeston.

Ask a local and they will say it is always there                                                                             in the periphery, on the edge of vision.

Driving fast, you might spot it, silhouetted                                                                                    as black as the night it should be hiding in.

Slow drive, curving right under its beak                                                                                      You might spy a mouse crouching                                                                                                  As if to pounce                                                                                                                                    Or waiting, stoicly

DH Lawrence is recognised as a great fiction writer, set at A level, I believe, still well-known for his travel writing.  Even tried his arm at painting though with less success.   How about his poems?    He was quite prolific but his name as a poet has not stuck.  As happens with many writers who move into novels successfully.  In temperament many poems would fit with the politics of Vernon Scannell or Billy Bragg but he definitely had a sensitive side:

In anthologies you regularly find his poems    Especially ‘Snake’  and   ‘Kangaroo’

Lawrence wrote memorably on other beasts.    Such as  this one:

A Baby Asleep After Pain

As a drenched, drowned bee
Hangs numb and heavy from a bending flower,
So clings to me
My baby, her brown hair brushed with wet tears
And laid against my cheek;
Her soft white legs hanging heavily over my arm
Swinging heavily to my movements as I walk.
My sleeping baby hangs upon my life,
Like a burden she hangs on me.
She has always seemed so light,
But now she is wet with tears and numb with pain
Even her floating hair sinks heavily,
Reaching downwards;
As the wings of a drenched, drowned bee
Are a heaviness, and a weariness.

 

Yes, the mention of  the bee is what caught my attention!     Another Lawrence:

Bat –   (or  Man and Bat, in another anthology)

At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise …

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding …

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno …

Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.

And you think:
‘The swallows are flying so late!’

Swallows?

Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop …
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.

Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.

At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio …
Changing guard.

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.

Pipistrello !
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;

Wings like bits of umbrella.

Bats!

Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.

Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!

Not for me!

…………………………..

Now there’s a man who has been tested but is still able to find his sense of humour.

Dare I finish on this by Ivor Cutler?   from Fly Sandwich, Methuen)

Bison’s Face

A bison’s face is its whole

head –  a rueful head.  It is

not grateful for having been

saved from extinction.  ‘You

the exterminator, and you

the preserver – man – look

much alike to me.  An

uncultured mob.  And you,

Mister Poet, keep your

phoney empathy.  Spending

£25 on a season ticket to pop

In and feel sorry for me.  Be

a pal, next time bring your

rifle.  You tell all your chums

how pragmatic you are’

All these poems have more than one face to nature, nature and man; and offer discussion points as well as clear observation to where and what is ‘Nature Poetry.’ 

 

tagged as: animals

The Art of Falling, Kim Moore, A Graph Review

A Graph Review, top of the range score!!     85.

 

The Art of Falling                  Kim Moore

Paperback, £9.99     Published by Seren Books, 2015                                    978  178172237 4

54 poems divided into three sections

The first section moves through gently humorous , touching nostalgia, events, relationship.  ‘The Art of Falling’  closes the first section with a  thesaurus of ‘falling’ that cleverly moves through a forrested landscape of ideas.  A landscape that slowly changes to leave the reader with a sense of foreboding, a darkening of heavy clouds where previously had been variety and movement through the poems.  This one poem, about a myriad meanings of one word actually builds to a threatening foreboding.  A beautifully constructed poem, belying it’s seeming simplicity.

To the second section, where the darkness closes and the poems struggle through a relationship, finally to break free but with black darts of memory picked up in the third section despite it moving into ‘clearer water’ with touches of humour,  thoughtful and on the power of woman. An assortment of ‘personaity’ poems with a heavy nudge against Mr Gove ( his name may lose currency but the principal of the poem will remain), from Kim’s thoughts as a music teacher.

The entire collection moves through patterns of light, to darker times, desperate times with an escape to open landscape and into a more normal world……. though here we have to hesitate over what is actually normal.  Perhaps I should say less claustrophobic and non-abusive. Throughout her observation is keen, frequently painful yet at times downright fun.

You travel with the author.  You feel you know Kim Moore and she is all you would like her to be as a poet……… and a brass teacher!……

Picking a few particular favourites is difficult in this moving-world collection.  In fact I reckon I ought to start using the term ‘most appreciate’ instead of ‘favourite’ as the latter might give a too-soft expectation for some poems.    This applies to many collections these days……. or at least the ones I prefer to read and review.    So, to point out ones I most appreciate:

section I            Boxer,   In Praise of Arguing,       

section II          He Was the Forgotten Thing,   The Knowing,   Encounter,   How I Abandoned My Body to His Keeping,       

section III        Picnic on Stickle Pike,   The Dead Tree,    How Wolves Change Rivers.

I have picked out nine, too many, really!    Wolves pick their way through the various poems and perhaps a core (self) image, consciously or not,  surfaces.   But not entirely through my selection, which is almost random with a sense of movement (I hope) that shows the quality of this book.  Maybe a couple of the last poems in this collection slip through the thematic but only at an angle, not incongruously.

Any actual or aspiring poet would do well to read this collection, to:      “Sing the note inside your head then match it.”      (From midway of ‘Teaching the Trumpet’)

 

Lorna Goodison, Windham Campbell Prize 2018…For Poetry

Lorna Goodison  is a deserving recipient of this year’s Poetry prize.  ‘Recipient’ is a brilliant word as the  individuals are not in a competition but selected by the organisers as the most ‘influential’ writer in their genre of the year.  Not necessarily for an individual work.

Read the words from Windham Campbell site:

POETRY

Extracted from Windham Campbell website: for 2018 poetry prize, use links to their website for all recipients..

Lorna Goodison’s poetry draws us into a panoramic history of a woman’s life, bearing witness to female embodiment, the colonial legacy, mortality, and the sacred.

Lorna Goodison is one of the Caribbean’s foremost writers and the current Poet Laureate of Jamaica (2017-2020). The poet Derek Walcott described Goodison’s work as containing that “rare quality that has gone out of poetry … joy.” Often intensely metaphysical, even theological, her poems are at the same time deeply rooted in the particularities of time and place. She writes of her mother’s long hours at the sewing machine, of family meals, of funerals and weddings, punctuating her verse with folk songs, hymns, recipes, and family lore. Elsewhere she turns more explicitly to history, writing about the experiences of Rosa Parks and Winne Mandela, finding in such figures the promise of resistance and the hope for liberation. In “Mother, the Great Stones Got to Move,” Goodison writes: “one stone is wedged across the hole in our history / and sealed with blood wax. / In this hole is our side of the story.” Goodison has long worked to move the stone, and to deliver untold stories—of duty and desire, of language and history—into the world. She has received many honors, including the Musgrave Medal (1999) and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize (1987). She is Professor Emerita at the University of Michigan, where she was the Lemuel A. Johnson Professor of English and African and Afroamerican Studies.

Costa Book Award 2017: Overall Winner

INSIDE THE WAVE    by HELEN DUNMORE 

Announced  Tuesday  30th January, 2018:    Costa Book Award Winner 2017

Its a pleasure to see such a fine collection as overall winner of this year’s Costa Award.

The ‘Acknowledgements’ say some poems have been published in collections, or online and a few broadcast by Radio 3 between 2014 and 2016.    The last poem (not included in first printing) was Helen Dunmore’s final poem.

Here is a  collection of 49 poems in  which many veer between dream and reality where the author herself may wonder which at times.  The Underworld, stories from the classic myths slip into her poems as naturally as her descriptions of hospital visits, views from a window and dreams of childhood and memories.  Interlaced through all (most) is the awareness of dying.  Surprisingly the poems leave this reader with a degree of comfort and calmness from the upfront, conversational language and clarity of style which helps with the adrenalin rush on reading such accomplished work.

From the first poem, ‘Counting Backwards’  to others where her (or of her children) memories recur in different settings; poems personal, twilight dreams, or people; or just the rain  to the last poem( in the first printing): ‘September Rain’.  there is a beautiful control of language and temperament above the full knowledge that the book (author) is cataloging her thoughts towards death. Individually some lines might seem obscure but their balance is always found in other poems.  Water, as sea, pool or rain seems ever-present.

The last two verses of September Rain:    I lie and listen/ And the life in me stirs like a tide/ that knows when it must be gone.  …………….                                                            I am on the deep deep water/ Lightly held by one ankle/ Out of my depth, waiting.

It seems Helen Dunmore has produced an outstanding series of poems which illustrate  humanity and an understanding of mortality to find a preparedness for Death.  Her final poem:‘Hold Out Your Arms’.   returns to one major theme of a mothers endless love. Here, line after line pick up on elements from previous poems and imagery adds more:    ‘Death stoops over me/ Her long skirts slide,/She knows I am shy.’  : from the start of the fifth verse.

A superb collection!

link to Guardian for fuller report   http://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/jan/30/helen-dunmore-wins-costa-book-of-the-year-for-inside-the-wave

to Poets: ‘Things ‘ to remember

 

Rhythm and rhyme and verbal trickery
Are the building blocks of all good poetry.
Alliteration and metaphor and assononce too–
Here’s a message from you know who.                                      Philip Ivory

No adverbs or adjectives                                      JJS

When you write a verse they say beware the adverb, it slows the movement.  If you use a noun, decry adjectives as to describe just clutters the mind.

Just think,  “You save so much ink.”

 

Poets Cornered

 

Sitting in a stereotypical circle

each position duly claimed, duly noted,

we six practiced our secret art

of Poetry that we wroted!

 

It may seem harsh to chronicle something so abominable

but we only hope to be quoted when this Earth we all depart.

The problem, some see, or not,

is that like novelists,  of poets there are a lot,

but only few are published, and even then forgot!